


Whimsy

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-25
Updated: 2016-10-25
Packaged: 2018-08-24 14:13:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8375308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Lindir tries on Gil-galad’s circlet.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [saurgristiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saurgristiel/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for saurgristiel’s “A little moment between Lindir & Elrond and Gli-galad's circlet” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s late for Lindir to be gone, but as meticulous as he is, it isn’t entirely uncommon for him to lose all sense of time when immersed in his duties. Most nights, Elrond will retire on his own without pause, knowing Lindir will return to him eventually. Tonight, the air is crisp and cool, and the minstrel’s songs are particularly captivating—it would seem such a shame to end the night alone. So Elrond strolls about his home and looks through one building after another, until he finds his way into the Eastern library.

There, he finally spots his attendant. Lindir is tucked into the far corner, gaze fixed firmly on the small, circular mirror that hangs decoratively between two large shelves of books. His fingers hold a familiar diadem just above his forehead, and he slips it on with clear reverence all over his delicate features. 

It’s a wistful, pretty sight, and Elrond has no wish to ruin the moment. He’s still, at first, waiting, but Lindir only stares, wide-eyed, at his reflection. When it’s clear Lindir has no plans of moving, Elrond sweeps forward with as quiet a step as he can manage. It isn’t until he’s come into view of the mirror that Lindir notices, and then Lindir turns with a hitch of breath and a quick blush across his cheeks. He hurriedly apologizes: “I am so sorry, my lord, I just—I... I did not—” But he can’t seem to form the whole sentence and instead breaks off, looking like a skittish leaf about to blow off in the wind.

“It is alright, Lindir,” Elrond assures him just as soon. “I know you will have been careful with it.”

Lindir closes his mouth. The slight twitch of a smile breaks through the rest of the worry; he always delights in even the smallest compliments from Elrond. It’s a strange contrast: the lack of confidence on his face and the elaborate crown atop his head. The diadem is an elegant design of interwoven gold, much like Elrond’s own circlet, but grander and more worn; even Imladris can’t entirely hold the wear of time away. It once circled Gil-galad’s forehead, and Elrond has to look away from it now, lest too many memories come flooding in.

Lindir’s more humble beauty is captivating enough, and Elrond lifts one hand to adjust a few of the stray brown hairs that have caught themselves in the diadem’s twists. Lindir both flushes at and leans into the touch, his clear pleasure growing with each second they’re connected. Elrond asks, “Were you picturing being a great Elven warrior?”

“No. I would not presume to be like Lord Gil-galad, even in my own fantasies.”

Elrond can’t help a small grin—only Lindir would place such limitations on his imagination. But then, Elrond isn’t sure he could imagine Lindir in battle either, and he always hopes this age will never come to that—Lindir’s soft hands are better left to parchment and harps than swords. 

Elrond wonders aloud, “You just wished to see how it would look on you, then?” Lindir seems bashful at the thought, but Elrond tells him, “You look as handsome as ever in it.”

Lindir sucks in a breath and actually bites his bottom lip in a failing attempt to stiffle his growing smile. He dips his head into something of a bow and says, “Thank you, my lord.” Then he sheepishly admits, “I... I was imagining being a prince, actually.”

“A prince?” Elrond muses. “Why not a higher lord like Gil-galad himself? A proud king?”

He would make a good leader, even with his worry: he’s kind, intelligent, patient. But he shakes his head and insists, “You will always be my lord. I just... wondered what it might be like... to be a peer.” 

Even with their closeness and Elrond’s title, he was never _truly_ Gil-galad’s peer. Few were. But Lindir, as young as he is, isn’t like another of Elrond’s children, nor just any other resident of Elrond’s home. When Elrond lifts his hands to Lindir’s head, Lindir bows obligingly to help Elrond remove the circlet. He places it cautiously back on its stand, where it will be displayed with honour for as long as Elrond has these halls. 

To Lindir, he reaches out, his fingers sliding back into Lindir’s hair, his palms cupping Lindir’s warm cheeks. The same reverence that came for Gil-galad slips back over Lindir’s face; he always looks at Elrond as though Elrond were the center of his entire world. It’s a trust, love, that Elrond doesn’t wish to squander. He leans forward to brush his lips over Lindir’s, not open mouthed but not chaste: enough to be _felt_ , for this to be a proper kiss that announces all its sentiment. When Elrond parts them, it’s only to rest his forehead against Lindir’s, and he fondly thumbs Lindir’s cheek and promises, “You are my peer, dear Lindir. You will always be my equal.”

For once, Lindir doesn’t argue this. Instead, he smiles delightfully wide and lets out a little laugh, explaining, “I am sorry—you misunderstand, my lord. I _like_ being your servant. ...Guiltily, I confess that I do also enjoy the occasional idle daydream of other worlds, other ways we might have met, other dynamics we might have had.” A short pause, and he adds. “I admire you in every one. And in most, you are still the renowned heir of the great Gil-galad, and I am always honoured to know someone so beloved.”

Blessed is more the word Elrond would use. But Lindir is too glowing now to argue with, and so Elrond leaves him to that relentless admiration. With a stray glance back to the diadem, Elrond sighs, “He would have liked you, my Lindir. I am sure of it.” And Lindir would’ve liked Gil-galad in return. And perhaps, someday, when the two of them sail to Western shores, that supposition may prove true.

In the meantime, Elrond adds, “...And _I_ like you too much, I am afraid, to let you spend a cold night in the library.” He ends this announcement with a kiss to Lindir’s temple, that makes Lindir light up like a summer lantern and twist his fingers into Elrond’s hand. Elrond then tugs him back towards the doorway, and they head towards their quarters to put such wistful fantasies to better use.


End file.
